


The Gardener and the Frog

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [28]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Fractured Fairy Tale, Love Confessions, M/M, Major AU, Smoochtober 2018, silly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 09:17:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: In which the humble gardener Samwise Gamgee frees the Bagginses and Bag End from a terrible curse laid upon them by a Dragon.





	The Gardener and the Frog

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/132744) for Smoochtober 2018, #28: Kissing a Frog/Toad.

For as long as anyone could remember, Bag End atop the Hill of Hobbiton had been desolate and abandoned. It happened so long ago, tales of _why_ the gardens were overgrown with weeds, the great smial empty, and the mighty oak atop it withered and dead, were only rumors, now – mere ghosts of the true tale.

The hows, whens, whyfors and suchlike varied between each account, but the general consensus among each story, was that old Bilbo Baggins – notoriously cracked and mad – had long ago gone out to steal the treasure of a Dragon, leaving his nephew Frodo behind to mind after things. Now, Dragons – as everyone knows – are not creatures to be trifled with, especially when it comes to pilfering their treasures. Dragons dislike the term 'hoarder', but do reluctantly admit to being _very_ attached to the treasure troves of gold they amass; every single piece.

Thus, generally would-be burglars and thieves, if not caught by the flaming ire of a Dragon in the robbery attempt, may well find themselves in grief in many other ways. For you see, Dragons are not only... possessive, shall we say, but also very big, strong, and in more ways than flame and strength, immensely powerful. It is rumored, all across the Shire, that Bag End's desolation was brought about by a Dragon curse – for the theft of its treasure, the Dragon laid upon Bilbo the vow that his home would wither, and never again prosper. Even if it did, he would be in no form to enjoy it.

Or so the rumors said. It was quite possible the fragments of the story became mixed and diluted with other tall tales swapped about to explain the unknown or entertain children. All was known for certainty, was that Bilbo Baggins was never seen in the Shire again following his first departure, and his nephew Frodo had vanished when the gardens began to die. Some insisted Bilbo must've returned for a brief while, and start the spread of rumors, but even if he had, no one had seen him.

For a time, Bag End's desolate and oppressing shadow scared many hobbits away from digging even into the foot of the Hill, but over time, as the joyless lot proved itself harmless with the passing of years, plucky realtors set aside their fears, and began building into it anyway. New homeowners on Bagshot Row, as it was called, were particularly pleased, for they got an excellent view over Hobbiton and the Water, for a middling cost brought down by the proximity to the unsettling Bag End.

The Gamgees had been living in Number Three, Bagshot Row since before the birth of their first son – but distinctly opposing many heroic tales of first-borns, he was not particularly special. In fact, it was _fifth_ born of the Gamgees – and the third and _last_ son at that, that proved notable, in a heroic and fairytale type sense. Of course, that wouldn't be spoken about for quite a while, as most of his neighbors just thought him a bit odd.

He was a fine lad, all told – following after his father's trade of gardening, and providing an excellent and loving hand to any flowerbed, not to mention always cheerful and polite to near-anyone he met (those with the surname Sandyman were not met so kindly). The only misgiving others of a more commonplace and orderly way of thinking had about him, was his head seemed so often in the clouds, and he spoke rather eagerly with strangers from beyond the Bounds. If a Dwarf trader happened to be passing through one of the local inns, Samwise Gamgee was the first to accost them for news of the Wilder Lands. It unsettled others, how much the lad seemed enamored with things foreign and strange, and described often his daydreams of meeting Elves or going on some fine Quest of Adventure.

“T'is exactly how that Mad Baggins went and got his home all cursed, innit?” Ted Sandyman the miller jibed him once at the _Ivy Bush_ , to Sam's ire. “Went out stickin' his nose where it didn't belong, then he didn't have it no more, nor a home to go back to!”

Sam grumbled into his mug. “Aye, well _he_ went toying with a Dragon, didn't he? I wouldn't go after one of _them_ , or their treasures.”

In truth, Sam wasn't particularly afraid of local superstitions surrounding Bag End. He did believe Dragons must surely be immensely powerful – that's why they were called Dragons, and had great hoards of treasure – but he thought such a mighty curse from such a long ways away was a bit ridiculous. Like as not Old Bilbo might have got himself et, the richness of Bag End's soil was all used up, and that Frodo fled in disgrace.

Holding these beliefs in relative confidence were what allowed Sam to wander – only a little afraid – up to Bag End itself on some evenings, alone, just going for a stroll. Most young lads and lasses made a daring game of it – run up to the creaky gate and touch it, then come right back before old Bilbo's ghost gets you! - but Sam didn't put stock in any such games or fears. Well, maybe a little fear, but only for Bag End's empty lifelessness, which was remarkably out of place in the vibrant and abundant Shire.

Even for that, he still took comparative gambles with wandering on to the abandoned grounds, relative to other hobbits' general fear of it. It was a night in early spring – following dinner, but before the sun had all together set, that he felt like another wander up. A curiosity about the old oak had taken sudden hold of him in the few days past, and he wanted a better look at it.

As he strolled up the lane, he played an idle game of catch with himself, tossing a ball that shined like gold from hand to hand. It had been a gift from his father some years ago – from the Free Fair in Michel Delving, it was – and keeping his hands occupied with it generally helped him calm and focus whenever he was anxious about something. The merchant had said it was dusted with real gold flakes, though all of the Gamgees were fairly certain it was a cheap imitation. Nevertheless, Sam still liked it.

He stopped still when he reached the gate of the old smial, creaking faintly as it was unhinged, and the wind was rocking it. On its front, a tattered sign also fluttered minutely, the words which had once been written on it long ago faded and forgotten.

A creeping unease prickled along Sam's spine as he looked over the withered and weed-filled gardens, the dust-coated windows of the smial, and up to the dead and bare oak, from which the whistling of the wind could be heard through its branches. He wasn't afraid, he told himself insistently, only curious – besides, he'd been here before, and no hobbit-wraith had leaped from anywhere to assault him.

He took a big breath before stepping past the gate, anyway. It creaked loud and ominous behind him as it swished closed (as it wasn't latched to begin with, for courtesy he didn't latch it later), and the cracked stones of the path leading to the front door groaned beneath his feet. As he always did, he made a great effort to ignore the unsettling nature of the sounds echoing across the ground, stepping up to the smial door and giving the knob a turn. As always, it was locked – but still he hoped that someday, perhaps it wouldn't be, somehow.

Beginning to toss his ball back and forth again, he wandered around the side of the smial, glancing in the gloomy and cracked windows as he passed the overgrown and frankly grey flowerbeds, coming round the back to ascend the top of the Hill. The grass was a sad brown, crunching unpleasantly underfoot, and Sam permitted the thought to creep in of how unnatural this was, when just on the other side of the lane, the grass was already rising healthy and green.

He was surprised by the beauty of the view when he stood on the Hill's very crown. Hobbiton, Bywater and the Water were spread out below, as far as they eye could see, and even beyond. Lights were already coming on down in the villages, and the Water acted as a mirror to the gold and pink-streaked sky as violet bloomed on the east horizon. It was breathtaking.

Delight filled Sam completely with his discovery, and the knowledge he was the only one to come up here – this view was his own private outlook, and he could come here to be alone and look, as much as he pleased.

He reveled in the continued shifting of the sky from the daylily oranges and purples to blue-violet as the stars began to emerge, and the moon crept up over the horizon as the sun bid its final farewell for the day. Sam sighed contentedly, entranced – but was so relaxed in his reverie at the beauty and peace before him, he was given a horrid fright when a raven suddenly leaped cawing from a tree near the lane, and flying overhead with a ruckus.

Sam placed a hand against his pounding heart as the bird flew to its destination, assuring himself there was nothing more frightening around than noisy birds. Then, he noticed he had dropped his ball – and it was bouncing away behind him to the roots of the tree.

“Come back!” he yelped, scrabbling after the ball as it fled – but too slowly, as with a bounce and a roll too quick for Sam's desperate hands, it tumbled down a hole beneath the roots. Sam collapsed on his hands and knees before it, bending down and peering into the little tunnel, realizing to his dismay that his hand was too big to fit inside, and even then he couldn't see his ball any longer – what he could see inside the tunnel lead into a deep gloom.

“Oh,” he murmured, sitting back on his feet and covering his mouth with a hand, “bother...” Others would surely think the tears trailing his cheeks were utterly unnecessary for a silly ball, but to Sam, it had been a gift from his father, and something he'd held dearly for years. The upbraiding his mind proceeding to give him, for losing it like such a ninnyhammer, made him feel even worse.

As the moon rose higher, Sam sat back, melting into a miserable lump as he cried in earnest.

“Ah, pardon,” Sam's sobs snapped to a halt with a hiccup as a small voice came from somewhere near, “but if it's your ball you're bemoaning, I can get it back for you.”

“Who-?!” Sam gasped, blearily stumbling to his feet and looking around, trying to find who was speaking – and who'd seen him go to pieces over a ball.

It sounded like the voice sighed, before saying louder than before, “Down here.” Bewildered, Sam followed the suggestion and looked down, to be struck dumb by what he saw. A brown frog had been creeping over the oak's roots, and sat down when Sam's gaze landed on him. “Yes,” sighed the frog, “yes, down here, me.”

Sam's jaw flapped open and closed, no sensible word daring to come out in the face of such absurdity. Obvious words were not so much bold as perhaps oblivious. “You-” Sam shrieked at last, “you's a talking frog!”

“Unfortunately.” the frog confirmed, looking down with a surprisingly mournful face, for a frog – and Sam realized its eyes were blue. Very, very blue – as though someone had taken part of the sky reflected in the bluest pond, and made them into a pair of eyes. “At least you know I'm a frog, and not a toad. I don't meet many people these days, but most have gotten that wrong. Thank you.”

Sam, of course, was completely flabbergasted at meeting a talking amphibian of any kind – frog or toad it didn't matter (though somewhere beneath his shock, he privately thought any hobbit worth their salt ought to know the difference) – however, one's sensory overload of the bizarre begins to froth over uselessly, once a talking amphibian _thanks_ you, and thinking begins to return to normal. “I- ehm, well... You're- welcome?”

The frog looked back up at him, and Sam wondered if it – it? it did sound masculine, a bit – was smiling. It looked rather like it. “And thank you for being polite, too. It's been a while since I've last had a civil conversation – more than someone running off shrieking, you know.”

“Uh-huh.” said Sam, contemplating whether doing just that would be to his best advantage – before he remembered his ball, and considered again that talking frogs were no less than unusual, and likely... special, somehow, because of it. “Eh, because you talk? And- you're a frog?”

Sam supposed the frog's expression took on something of a deadpan edge. “Well, that's always been my best guess.”

“Of course- sorry.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment at the deserved deadpan. There weren't many other reasons a frog would make someone run off screaming – and considering things more clearly, now that his fright was passing, Sam was pondering still if he ought to. So far, all the frog was doing was talking – and studying him with those blue eyes (which almost seemed too big for his head). Neither of which were... particularly dangerous, as far as Sam knew of frogs, and it had mentioned retrieving his ball... “Um, so- I suppose I've a lot of questions,” he began unsteadily, still rather baffled he was exchanging comprehensible words with a creature that was normally supposed to only croak, “but- you mentioned getting me ball back?”

The deadpan melted away as the frog perked up at the question. “I did, yes! And I will happily get it back for you – no trouble for me at all, in fact. However, I'm afraid I'd like to ask you something for it in turn.” Sam shifted uneasily, hoping it wouldn't ask for his firstborn or somesuch. “Would you be willing to listen to my... story, I suppose you could call it, after I bring back your ball? I've a dreadful lot I need to tell _someone_ , and you're the first person in years that's been willing to speak with me for longer than a few seconds.”

Well, that hardly sounded so bad, odd as it was to make a sort of barter with a frog. A little oddity and listening to it talk for a little while longer was worth getting his ball back. “I'm expected back at home afore too long, but aye, I can stay a bit longer to listen.”

He wondered if frogs could beam, as it gave a cheerful hop in place. “Marvelous! I'll be back in half a moment, then.” and just like that, it hopped once more – but this time to the lip of the hole down which Sam's ball had vanished – and followed after the missing object into the gloom.

Sam cautiously sat down again to wait, still trying to figure out what exactly was happening – he knew of course he was talking to a talking frog, but... that didn't add up correctly, no matter how he was figuring it. He wondered if he was having some sort of strange fever dream, and in reality was back home in bed, and none of today, perhaps, had happened at all.

He was surprised when a series of little grunts became steadily louder, and soon enough his ball reappeared from the hole, being pushed up by the frog. “Here we are!” it declared, rolling the ball over to Sam's knee. “Safe and sound.”

If the frog had been more of the hobbit persuasion (at that moment), Sam likely would've hugged it and wept a bit on its shoulder. “Oh, thank'ee!” he cried, picking up his ball and holding it close, as if it were a lost child just recovered. “Thank'ee awful much- miiis- ehm,” through his joyous tears, he looked down suddenly at the frog, “misss...?”

“Mister, only if you like,” the frog replied, seeming to square itself up to look dignified, in spite of the dirt smudges it was now wearing, “Frodo Baggins, specifically.”

Sam had encountered many surprising things this evening. A talking frog, one would think, might take the cake – and it did, to a point. The talking frog being one of the infamous Bagginses of the Hill added an entire other cake and a mountain of haphazardly decorated icing on top of it. “You.” said Sam, the message service between his brain and mouth becoming swamped with an overabundance of information that just didn't add up. “ _You're-_ ”

“Yes,” Frodo saved him the trouble of brute-forcing a jibberish message through the overwhelmed system. “ _That_ Frodo. From which, I take it you know the general story of... everything here?” he gestured to their surroundings with a webbed... hand? Foot? In any case, Sam decided the best course of action was just to nod silently. “Well, I don't know what versions are going about these days, but I can tell you the real events that have led us to the here and now, if you'd still like to listen?” Sam considered his earlier promise, along with the electrifying curiosity surging through him to realize he could learn the truth of everything, once and for all. He nodded again, settling his ball securely in his lap, while Frodo made himself likewise comfortable, and began his tale.

“To tell it plainly and simply, my uncle Bilbo was recruited by a wizard and a number of dwarves to go harass a Dragon somewhere far off in the Wild,” he gestured vaguely behind him, “which of course no one thought was a particularly good idea, but there was gold in it, so they went out and did it anyway, hiring Bilbo as their Burglar.

“After an enormous amount of trouble to get to the Dragon's lair, the dwarves naturally hung the hobbit high and dry, insisting as _he_ was the burglar, he ought to be the one to go pester the dragon, first, and bring back something fetching. He did, in fact! A very fine goblet of gold.

“However, he did not get away with it unscathed; the Dragon didn't burn or eat him, somehow – Bilbo was a bit vague on how exactly he managed that – but it did curse him. Dragons, as you might know, are strong, can breathe fire, and also delight in nonsensical riddles.

“What the wizard neglected to tell anyone, was _this_ Dragon was of the sort that had gained a special mastery over riddletalk – over talk at all, in fact. His words weren't only words, they were _power_. And he laid the strongest words he could think of, then, upon my uncle as he fled the Lair with the goblet.” Frodo's expression throughout this had become progressively downcast, until he now looked positively sad. “That was the curse, as I said before. That his lands would prosper not, he and his heirs would be bound to lands devoid of life or bounty, and even should they find a loophole in that, they would be in no form to enjoy them.” He gestured again with his webbed fore-appendage. “So we have all of this; a home barren of life, and his heir a frog.

“It happened so suddenly that day, here at home, and it wasn't until almost a year later the wizard returned with Bilbo in tow – only he was a turtle, and they both explained what exactly happened. I was still quite sore at them, you know – suddenly being turned into a frog and the smial going to pot all at once – but they did mention the Dragon had annotated the curse with a way to lift it. Apparently that's a requirement with curses; there's got to be a way to lift them.

“The first two curse... curse-breakers, they knew plain-off; the Dragon mentioned them as my uncle scuttled out of the Lair.

“The first is that one of the two of us at least must make an equal exchange of some form, with someone else; no cheating, no swindling, nothing.

“The second, is that we must generously share everything available to us with persons besides ourselves, and ask for nothing in return.

“There is a third is unfortunately still a mystery; my uncle had been picked up by the dwarves as they ran for it while the Dragon announced the third key, so they never heard it. Bilbo and the wizard left years ago to figure out what it was, but I've not heard from them again in ages.” Frodo looked mournfully up at Sam, but a flicker of hope seemed to be in his eyes. A breeze blew over the Hill, shaking the crumpled grass. It began to unfurl. “You're the first person I've really spoken to in many years, and I must say this has been a great relief to talk about at last. Thank you.”

Sam shrugged, his eyes still wide in surprise from the complexity of the story. As it turned out, a number of the rumors milling about Hobbiton weren't so far from the truth. “Well, ain't nothing, really. Happy to help as I can; s'pecially after you been through so much! Listening ain't no trouble. And- you can't leave the property to talk to anyone else, I'm guessing?”

Frodo shook his head. “No; I've certainly tried, though. It's as if an invisible barrier's been put up, and knocks me back whenever I try to leave it. So, if I want to try my hand at breaking the curse, I've been forced to wait for someone to come to me, and stay long enough for me to explain it all.

“You don't have to help, of course; it would be grand if you brought along others that might be willing instead, but unnecessary. Really, just your listening has been wonderful.”

Sam shifted his ball from hand to hand (carefully, as to keep from losing it again), thinking. “What exactly would I need to be doing, to help you?” It would be quite a story – one no one would believe, until they saw it at its end – if Sam were able to help break a Dragon's curse. His heart fluttered at the possibility of acting heroic and brave.

There was disbelief on Frodo's amphibian face, but disbelief of the wonderful sort when one has heard the unlikely gift that has been asked for, indeed will be given. “Well, really not much at all. You see, for the second clause, I've got to share what I have generously; that's land – including the smial – and, well, what knowledge I have, I suppose. If you wanted, you could try your hand at turning this into your own sort of retreat; plant whatever flowers you like, polish up the smial, and enjoy all of its books, to your heart's desire.”

Sam flushed with excitement at the mention of books – he loved their smell, and knowing there were so many words with such knowledge inside them, and having a whole selection of them at hand sounded like a dream come true. There was only one drawback. “Glory, the books do sound fine! But- I... I can't read, you see.”

“Oh?” Frodo's face did not indicate disappointment; perhaps only understanding. “Well, I'd be happy to teach you, then, if I can, and if you'd like. I'd happily give it a try, anyway!”

Once more, if Frodo at that moment had been more hobbit-shaped, Sam likely would've hugged him with joy. “Oh, you've a deal, Sir! Thank'ee so much!”

“I think in the end,” Frodo said, raising a webbed... hand, Sam decided, “I shall be the one thanking you!” and they shook on their agreement.

 

–

 

So it was spring began to roll by, far more pleasantly than it had for Frodo in years. With a sudden dedication, Sam began to arrive near-daily to Bag End, first sorting out the old gardening shed (which was rather overgrown in ivy) and pulling out what tools were salvageable. Following that, he attacked the weed-covered flowerbeds and yards passionately, clearing them to a tidier state than Frodo had thought they'd ever been, after which Sam planted a menagerie of seeds, ranging from flowers to vegetables.

As he could, he returned to mind after them, watering them and fighting back against the constant menace of the weeds. So, as spring rolled into summer, the grass of the yards grew again as they hadn't since before the curse had been imposed, and young, green shoots and vines rose from nearly every corner of the flowerbeds.

A few weeks following their first agreement, Frodo found the spare key to the smial, and Sam unlocked it, unfortunately having to force the door for the age and poor condition of the lock. Everything was dismal, covered in spiderwebs and years of dust, which Frodo mourned, but Sam took on cheerfully as a project. Fortunately, the books were all still in very fine shape, and on evenings Sam was not out in the gardens, nor tidying or fixing up the smial, Frodo began his reading lessons.

They were a bit bumpy at first, as Frodo could think only to start with teaching the alphabet, and didn't much know where to go after, but after long enough, and a good deal of spirited trying, Sam could read simpler picture books on his own. By autumn, as some of the trees began to lose the leaves they'd grown again in summer, Sam began to enjoy more difficult books, and Frodo introduced him to the marvelous item known as a dictionary.

Sam's visits began to slow in winter, as his family insisted his evening walks weren't such a grand idea out in the cold any longer, but he still strove to visit as often as he could. Most of those visits consisted of reading alone, when he and Frodo weren't simply talking.

Pleasantly, Sam realized they had done that quite a lot, just talking. As he'd worked in the gardens or on the smial, they'd talked and talked, Sam telling eventually quite everything of himself and his family, while in turn he learned a great deal about Frodo. About how his parents had drowned when he was a lad, and Bilbo had taken him in afterwards for a long while, before in time, leaving him as well. Only to get a curse dropped on both their heads, and return only once with a vague explanation.

Sam of course felt very sorry for Frodo, but admired greatly his ability to cope with the circumstances, and keep persevere through it all; Sam didn't think he'd have been able to manage it, if their roles were reversed. He did learn it had all given Frodo a great deal of time to think, and make up a slew of enchanting stories. Many evenings were spent atop the Hill, Frodo teaching Sam the stars, as they wondered over infinity.

In time, Sam realized – though for the moment he was not even a hobbit – Frodo was absolutely the cleverest hobbit he knew. Realizing that set a curious warmth ablaze in his heart ever after.

When spring came again, and the gardens tentatively came into bloom again – well, more than the gardens, in fact the whole of the Hill-top (save the oak), flourished – the residents of Hobbiton realized something was up. Sam was cornered at last, and carefully he explained that he'd found once and for all the Hill wasn't haunted, and had just felt it a fair community service to tidy up the grounds. Remembering the second stipulation of the curse, he also mentioned others could come and help him, and get their own corner of a garden, if they liked.

So it was, the yards of Bag End from afternoon 'til sunset in the summer, were filled with bustling hobbits (that Sam had tactfully disallowed and kept out of the smial proper, for its own integrity), and a brilliant flourish of vegetables, flowers, and fruits, individual types all uncountable. Even from the bottom of the lane, the sweet scent of its gardens could be reveled in, and even if one were standing in the middle of town, they could admire the newfound, vibrant color of the Hill-top.

The only thing lacking – and Frodo relayed this also to Sam, one evening late in summer – was the oak tree. “The curse is coming undone – why, it seems nearly unraveled all together, now,” Frodo was saying, as they sat contemplatively, leaning against the tree and looking happily upon the gardens, “but... I can't fathom why the tree wouldn't return as well. I suppose we've still the final hurdle to cross, but I just don't know what it would be – and I hope we can find it, someday. I... I'm getting quite tired of being a frog by now. Lacking thumbs is dreadful, you know.”

Sam gently patted his small shoulder in sympathy. “Don't you worry; we'll figure it out, one way or another.”

Frodo looked up at him, then, and it occurred to Sam that his eyes were very beautiful, for a frog. “Thank you, Sam. I won't ever be able to express how grateful I am for all you've done, or how happy you being here has made me. I... I'm glad you're with me.”

The moon was rising already, and Sam's face was so cast in shadows, but a faint red was still present on his cheeks. He was wondering, suddenly, what Frodo – and particularly those eyes – would look like, if he returned to being a normal hobbit. “I'm glad, too. Frodo.”

In the subsequent weeks, Sam began a ferocious study of any book even slightly related to curses, to see what the standard for breaking them was. He learned, eventually, that three stipulations were the standard number, and generally related to a progressive... development of character, that countered the grounds of the curse; ie, Bilbo's was laid for being 'greedy' with his theft, and so had to be generous in order to lift it.

For this, Sam helped Frodo engage in a number of charitable acts (mostly by Sam doing it in his place, but with Frodo's heart in it, for there was no other way), business deals at a bit of a loss, and even tentatively allowing his siblings into the smial, and helping them to slowly learn their letters.

Yet the oak still did not return to life, and Frodo was still stuck as a frog.

It was only when Sam was reading a book of fairytales for fun, did he realize there was also a set stock of generic curse-lifting stipulations one could pull from, if one was stumped for a last stipulation. A kiss of true love was a popular one, and for the feelings Sam felt mounting in his heart, he thought it was at least worth a try. Go down the list, like.

So, on the last day of summer – the day before Frodo's birthday, in fact, Sam shyly offered his proposal and what supporting evidence he could, as they sat as usual beneath the oak. “I been thinking awful hard about the last bit of the curse,” he said, trying to keep his blush down at least for the moment, “and we've said usually they follow a sort of theme, aye?”

Frodo was growing dreadfully weary of his amphibian state, but cheered himself a little at the fervor that seemed to have a hold of Sam. “Aye.”

“W-well, I been doing some reading as late, and seems also it ain't uncommon – in the heat of the moment, like, for someone to get stumped on all the stipulations. So, there's a usual, ah, set of old faithfuls, you could say, you can lay out if you need 'em.”

Frodo sat up. “What sorts, then?”

“Well, fairly uninspired, if you're asking me,” Sam replied, hastily pulling out a notebook, “but, things like it ending at the stroke of midnight – which is definitely out, of course – finally fulfilling a broken oath, managing to do exactly what the curse says you oughtn't be able to... and, ehm...” Sam's blush broke free to spill over his cheeks. “The most popular,” his voice fell to a shy mumble, “seems, ah, to be-- sommat dealing with true love.”

Frodo blinked, and leaned a bit closer to Sam, not quite believing his ears. “Sorry, what? I... I don't know if I heard quite right.”

“True love!” Sam ducked his head, trying in some fashion to stay calm. “Sommat to do with true love to break it. Like... like a kiss.”

For the first time in the amphibian stage of his life, Frodo felt his cheeks warming with a blush. “W-well, which do you suppose the most likely to be the last?”

Sam tugged on the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat shyly. “Most of 'em don't seem all together easy or sensible, all things considered, but there is one we could go trying right now. Don't know if it'd work, but... we could try?”

“... Which?”

“The last,” Sam murmured, finding himself unable to look at Frodo, and instead peered at the grass beneath him, “the- the kiss of true love.” Frodo made a shocked croaking noise, and Sam waved a hand hastily. “I-- I'm sorry! T'is- t'is only it stood out to me, for I do feel so about you, if I may say.” with what strength he could wrest under his control, Sam managed to look at Frodo directly. “Right enough, you're the most generous, kind and wise person I ever did know; and so very brave and strong, to put up with this all, and so terribly kind to old Sam. Not mentioning of course, your eyes, which are as starlight froze in water, like; more fair than I could ever say.”

A breeze began to blow softly through the branches of the oak. “And you-” said Frodo, at a very long length, “are as a summer of sunlight without end, after a thousand winters of darkness. Without you, I would not recall now what it is to have my heart stirred by something I would give the world for.

“Perhaps it will not work, but I would like to try.”

With reverence, Sam then lifted Frodo in his hands, and rose to stand on shaking legs. “Well, here goes, then,” he breathed, blushing furiously as he bent his head down, and shyly squeezed his eyes closed. He'd never properly kissed a hobbit before – not really meaning it, anyway – much less a frog.

For one moment, his lips gently touched something cold and slightly damp. That was before a brilliant glow of blue and gold shone through even his closed eyes, and when he opened them, he stood agape.

In winding tendrils of light, the face of the frog he'd held shifted and changed, only his eyes remaining constant – but growing bigger and brighter throughout – as above them, midnight curls flourished back into being and shone with golden dust. Pearl-touched skin was revealed as the light shifted and receded downwards, solidifying into a thin hobbit-chest and legs, clothed in soft burgundy velvets and corduroy.

Sam might have – after a period to grow used to him – called Frodo the frog fetching, for a frog. As a proper hobbit, he was breathtaking. The breeze grew to a wind and buffeted the cloud of deep brown curls about his face, and they both looked around them, breathless, as the great oak above them groaned, all at once its color and life returning. The saturation of its bark returned to a healthy brown as its roots and trunk thickened and righted themselves, and at last, in a dazzling show, it burst into full leaf.

The curse, of course, was broken, and any life denied to the gardens of Bag End was taken with a great surge, as a wave of lively color veritably exploded across its ground, stemming from the tree – or perhaps, Frodo and Sam, who were left holding hands, and soon after, were kissing passionately.

They were married, of course, no matter the objections of anyone around them – to bring to flower the most enviable gardens in all the Shire, and bring an end to such a notorious legend, there was no objection worthy to their union. Bag End took visitors still to its garden with open arms, and Frodo was reinstated by the Mayoral records as, in fact, a living and real person. Bilbo was as well, for he showed up some months later with the wizard Gandalf in tow, commending Frodo – and Sam in turn – for their breaking of the curse.

The ghostly renown of Bag End soon gave way to the legends of its gardens – but more enviable than even they, perhaps, was the love that brought them to flourish so finely. The memory of the love Frodo and Sam bore for one another lasted well beyond what we understand as the realms of time.


End file.
